


SDRUB.

by buddyvulpes



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ashen Romance | Auspistice, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, F/F, F/M, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, M/M, Multi, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6384355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buddyvulpes/pseuds/buddyvulpes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lovely piece of shit I created with advice from pals. I am bad at summaries. Everyone is screwed probably. This will progress how Homestuck used to, in which commentary will guide the decisions of the characters. This is subject to suspension for obvious reasons. I also reserve the right to scrap the project entirely if I become disgusted or disinterested in my creation in any way.  Have at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bruises and Night-gowns.

**Author's Note:**

> You heard the man. Introductions to idiots and their shenanigans right about now…

As these stories always seem to begin, today is the birthday of an average-looking young man- the 28th of March. He is of a somewhat athletic build, and is quite possibly the most ginger young sprat any living soul has ever seen. He knows, this much The Narrator can promise. He is leaning against a hatch door, very much like a bulkhead, breathing heavily. A little trickle of blood trails down the side of his head, looking black from the green glow that ominously filters through the tiny circular window behind him. Maybe the Ginger Sprat could use a reminder of his name, even if it does not meet the normal requirements for such? Reader. Enter name.

==>

[ Morgan Reach | ]

Ding ding! At least not all of us are smartasses. Mostly like this little shit, light injuries be damned I can say with eighty percent certainty he will despise being ordered about. But who cares about that. Not me. And probably not you. Morgan! Explore the shit out of your awesome room!

==>

He begrudgingly explores the same room he has had for cycles. Cycles! He rummages around a room almost entirely comprised of safety steel and the occasional scrap of lime fabric, elbowing a vase and knocking it over for the fourth time this week. He swears there is too much superglue on that thing for it to ever break again, but it finds a way. Crash. That is a mess, though one so gummed up with adhesive it will be a challenge to clean. At least the ends aren't terribly pointy. Morgan, ignore the mess and retrieve arms!

==>

"No, fuck you," he mutters exactly loud enough to be heard, "I am not a slob, and why would I need weapons?" He instead retrieves a broom and dustpan from a nearby closet and sweeps it all up. Miraculously, it does not get stuck to the broom. He scratches at the membrane behind his ear and pops his knuckles and neck excessively before continuing to rummage. I think I told you so. Anyways. Morgan! Notice you are in your pajamas!

==>

He notices that he is, in fact, still wearing an utterly unmasculine nightgown, but over it is a radiation suit, minus the helmet, which is sitting near his entrance. Ooh, that reminds me! Morgan, explain your injury pronto! And whatever an ear membrane is to boot! Chop chop! And why were you in there with the glowing green thingy which I presume was uranium? So many questions! Aaaaaahhhh!

==>

Morgan glares for a minute at whatever direction we seem to be coming from. You know the look. He does not want to answer our godforsaken questions. He wants some toast and his fucking coffee already, I mean Jesus. What's a sky colonist gotta do. Oh wait. That explains the ear thing. Narrator! Elaborate the hell out of that. Next chapter.

==>


	2. Toasters and Cloudseas.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which explanations are given. I am not quite that evil, I hope you understand. :3 You will get the opportunity to help narrate soon, I promise.

Narrator! Stop screwing around and elaborate on the thing already!

==>

Fine, fine. But one thing at a time. Firstly, Morgan is a human, but not exactly the ordinary sort for good ol’ Terra Firma Gaea or whatever the timeline reading this decides to call Earth. Who gives a shit. Consider people like Morgan here a forced next evolutionary step in the Homo Sapiens Sapiens line: a subset of humanity genetically modified (mostly involuntarily) to survive at higher altitude. Save for standard facial features, you could swear they look a lot more like bats than primates at this point and you would be correct. As you can see from the suddenly-ostracized-from-attention Mr. Reach flailing his arms like a dickwad down there, among the changes were some under-arm membranes and sail-like protrusions on the calves, not to mention the little dealios on the sides on their heads that look like Alterni-Beforan seadwweller fins. Think flying squirrels with low bone density and triple lung capacity. There ya go. Narrator! Stop monologuing and narrate already!

==>

Wow fickle much. Anyways, Morgie, you are now the center of attention again. Go get your breakfast or whatever interesting thing you were planning to do. I barely even remember and I narrated you into existence all of an hour ago my time. Morgan! Do that thing!

==>

Morgan meanders- no, trudges- his lightly bruised behind over to the hallway leading to the kitchen. This particular hallway leads over to the part of the house governed by the Iron Bitch- Aunt Reach- and is also encompassed almost entirely by a window that’s made of bulletproof crystal about six inches thick. Barely marrs the view, though, thankfully. Morgan! Check out that sweeeeeet view!

==>

A spectacular view of clouds and the mountaintops of the other sky islands dominates our. Well. View! The occasional stray sky-native lusus peaks its head through the clouds, only rarely distinguishable from the rest of the off-white masterpiece displayed here. The sky itself is a perpetual shade of pinkish this time of day, looking like an Earth sunrise from 600 hours to what would be high noon. Having an infinity-loop shaped orbit around two different stars of different radiation concentrations has some weird biz: more precisely, this is definitely not Earth. Welcome to New Gaea IV, which, right now, is a planet of a ginger sprat not giving even the most unfathomable of shits. He has seen this view for a few years more than a decade now, Earth time, of course, and kinda hates that his room had to be next to something so bright when he gets migraines every godforsaken morning-- fUCk thinking too hard. Bluh. Morgan, stop being a whiny little nookwhiffer and go get the breakfast you were practically raring for a minute ago.

==>

It is a long walk, but he manages. He shrugs off the rad suit halfway down the hall and collapses into a cushy kitchen chair. What to make. Nope. Toast. He pries himself back up and moseys to the toaster. Why did he bother to sit down? Nooooobody knows. He plops the toast, buttered slightly with cheese, into the toaster and set the timer. He grabs the coffee pot, thankfully already brewing triple-concentration espresso, and pours himself a tastebud-murdering thermosful. Aw yiss. Morgan, check on the toast.

==>

…okay. Sure. He approaches the toaster. Cautiousl oH JESUS KICKING CHRIST WHaT. Somebody- not naming names- altered the timer on the toaster by changing the spring, and both slices, about as hot as molten iron from being in there with a replaced heating component, go hurtling onto Morgan’s face. Satan’s piss may have well leaked into his eyes, if you’ll pardon the imagery. Morgan! Do a magnificent fucking pirouette off the handle!

==>

He promptly pitches the toaster out the window. … Well, there it goes. Hopefully it doesn’t land on anybody. Not that he cares. And you were wondering why he was hurt! He slumps to the ground and peels it all off. Why does this shit keep happening?! Find out in the next installment.


	3. IN WHICH WE TAKE A BREAK FROM THE WHINY GINGER.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guest narration by an old buddy of mine! Hopefully this goes well. Last chapter for the first day probably.  
> Edit. Need to figure out the obvious skins for this. Bah. Might not use it at all.

EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY, I AM RUNNING THIS SHOW. PERIOD. MOVE OVER, YOU PINK-TUXEDOED ASSHOLE. LET ME DO THIS JUSTICE. AHEM. STANDING IN HIS WELL-LIT, ELABORATELY ARRANGED AND DECORATED RESPITEBLOCK IS A SEADWELLER. YOU CAN ALMOST FEEL THE DOUCHE WAFTING OFF OF HIM. WOW, I DISLIKE HIM ALREADY. HOWEVER, BECAUSE THIS IS NOT HIS WRIGGLING DAY AND HE IS, IN FACT, A GOOD DEAL BEYOND THAT PARTICULAR POINT, WE CANNOT GIVE HIM A HILARIOUSLY APPROPRIATE NEW NAME. HIS NAME IS CYGNUS ALARCH. SAY HI! OKAY, NOW STOP SAYING HELLO, BECAUSE HE CANNOT HEAR JACK SHIT AND YOU ARE AN IMBECILE. HOWEVER, IT WOULD BE ASTUTE OF YOU TO HELP IN GIVING HIM A TITLE, AS HE IS APPROACHING THAT TIME IN HIS LIFE APPARENTLY. MAN THIS FUCKER IS OLD. Reader! Enter title!

==>

[ BLUEGILL | ]

WHOOP DEE FUCKING DO. WE GET THAT THE GUY IS ON THE END CLOSER TO PURPLE, BUT HE AIN’T QUITE A BLUEBLOOD. TRY AGAIN, NOOKWHIFF.

==>

[ BLACKFIN | ]

REAL CREATIVE. BUT THE EDGE ON THIS GUY IS SO SHARP THE NAME PROBABLY FITS RIGHT TO HIM. IF APPEARANCES ARE TO BE APPRECIATED, ANYWAY. HEY ASSHOLE, GIVE US THE WHOLE SPIEL. You heard the angry little troll! Cygnus, hop to it!

==>

Your name is CYGNUS ALARCH. You are a plumblood of eighteen sweeps as of last perigee, Alternian time, and you are not an asshole. Mostly. Your Chumhandle is smithingArchivist and your interests include MAKING EPIC WEAPONS in the style of the old Orphaners and READING CONTRABAND NOVELS. You are DOWNRIGHT AWESOME at both of these things, provided there’s a need and an ability to do those things, respectively. I mean, of course you can read. Duh. In general, you are all about SECRETS AND BEING SECRETIVE, because why would anyone want to be open about anything. That’s just dumb. Around your respiteblock are ASSORTED MOUNTED WEAPONS and HUNDREDS AND HUNDREDS OF BOOKSHELVES, because obviously this is the best place to keep them. Was it mentioned that this hive is embedded in about forty feet of dense basalt on the seafloor? Because it is. You look up momentarily at the sound of something sharply metallic pinging off of the ceiling. Darnit Morgan.

==>

WELL, SO MUCH FOR THAT BREAK FROM IRRITATING PINK MONKEYS. THEY JUST HAVE TO MEDDLE. YOU’D SWEAR THEY WERE PARTLY CREATED BY MARYAMS. OH WAIT. ANYWAYS. BLACKFIN, ARM YOURSELF AND INVESTIGATE THE PINGING. PRONTO.

==>

CYGNUS DOES THE THING WHERE CLOTHES ARE VERY RAPIDLY SWITCHED WITHOUT BEING EXPOSED. THANK GOG, NOBODY WANTS TO SEE YOUR OLD MAN JUNK. BLUH. ANYWAYS HE IS NOW WEARING A WETSUIT WITH SIGNIFICANTLY LESS BLING. THERE IS NO CAPE INVOLVED, BECAUSE CAPES ARE INCREDIBLY STUPID AND IMPRACTICAL. WHO HAS TIME FOR IMPRACTICALITY, AND I SWEAR THAT CYGNUS AGREES WITH ME. ALL OF THAT ASIDE. HE MAKES HIS MERRY FUCKING WAY TO A SEPARATE CEILING HATCH A FEW LAYERS ABOVE, GRABBING A SHORT, BARBED SPEAR IN ORPHANER COLOURS. PROBABLY DOES THE AHAB’S CROSSHAIRS THING. WHO CARES ABOUT ANY OF THAT. NOT ME. SWIM SWIM. LOAFCOOKER. BLACKFIN, INVESTIGATE!

==>

Okay, move over, Shouty. Time for someone with some tact. Ladies and gentlemen, I have come to the conclusion that the next time that there will be active reader input- more precisely, the first time, provided anyone shows any interest in the function in the comments, of course- will be at the conclusion of the section, or rather, the analog to Act One. Big decisions to make, even if I do not expect anybody to actually care. This decision is set in stone, and the story will die if this choice is not made promptly. Also, considering his vulgarity, the guest narrator will not be asked back, no matter how much threatening he does with a sickle. That thing is kinda piddly anyway. Narrator! Put this chapter out of its misery already! ~~~~

== >

 


	4. IN WHICH AN ENCOUNTER IS MADE AND THE CO-HOST IS OUSTED

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I regret allowing my. Er. Companion? have his place in the work. A little vulgar for my taste, I don't care how important he is. The opportunity to make choices will, upon revision, not be extended until the conclusion of the section. It will be a more important choice then anyway. Just a reminder but who gives a shit.

Gasp! We never gave the Whiny Sprat Morgan a real introduction! I mean. Obviously we did but not the Whole Spiel. So then, kid? Let’s hear it!

==>

Your name is Morgan Reach. You are an upper-class sky-dwelling human of, as of today, fourteen years. You, unlike your “neighbor” about eight miles beneath you, actively recognize that you tend to be an ass. Your Chumhandle is iridiumIkaros, and your interests include ENGINEERING FLYING MACHINES and BEATING THE SHIT OUT OF STUFF. You are INCOMPREHENSIBLY AWFUL at the latter of those, because of your COWARDLY NATURE. As for the former, you built the GREEN STARLIGHT ENGINE keeping this island afloat, so there’s that, even if you have no idea where the power actually comes from. The name just seems nice. But anyway. In order to keep the complex safe from LUSUS INTERLOPERS, most of the architecture is very MILITARY-STYLE. The house lacks most decorations, but around YOUR ROOM are assorted OVERLY EXPENSIVE KNIVES custom made by a buddy of yours. In general, you are all about being PRECISE AND NOT WASTING TIME,(but clearly not money?) because people who do not do that are idiots. Meaning basically everyone. Morgan! We get it! Shut up!

==>

Morgan promptly shuts up, and is happy to do so while he peels molten cheese out of his pompadour haircut. Fuck this is painful. He is only momentarily distracted by the feeling of a nearly-clawed hand on his back. The hand is icy, with a grip like steel. Breath that smells of the already-eaten breakfast the dishes in the sink might suggest creeps over his face from directly to his right, an odor reminiscent of sulfur and burnt flesh of some poor animal. Or maybe just bacon and eggs. Morgan! Greet your Auntie!

==>

He promptly comes close to leaping out of his skin at the grip of the upset and concerned Iron Bitch, who appears to be wearing that overly-thick parka again. She must have been outside, if the thin, frigid air rushing in through the new hole in the window is any indicator. She releases her grip from his arm and points at the roof, a stern look on her face (like always). He gulps audibly before following his Auntie to The Roof, but not before his smartphone beeps violently. What now?! Morgan! Answer Chum!

==>

If the look on his face is any indicator, either the person on the other end is not a chum, or they are exceptionally annoying.

\-- smithingArchivist [ SA ] began pestering iridiumIkaros [ II ] at 0743 hr --

[0743] SA: _wHY iS tHERE a tOASTER aLL tHE wAY dOWN hERE_?

[0743] II: now is really not the time cyg. im being punished atm. well talk toasters later ok

[0744] SA: _mIGHT i hAZARD a gUESS tHAT yOU’RE uP sHIT cREEK bECAUSE oF THE tOASTER bIT_

[0744] II: fuck you man

\-- iridiumIkaros [ II ] has blocked smithingArchivist [ SA ]! --

==>

Get fucked fish boy. Not dealing with your shit, not n-- fuck! Auntie has smacked him upside the head for “using the computer unproductively,”. At least she didn’t take it. With all of this in mind, I smell a strife coming on. Oh wait. Here they are on the roof. Morgan! Prepare to defend yourself!

=STRIFE!!=>


	5. Chills and Stinging Frost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This hurt me a little to write, to be perfectly honest.

=STRIFE!!=>

The air is cold and crisp, and these feelings are pleasantly familiar to most of those who reside in the sky. For one particular young man in a bathrobe and the torso-half of a damaged radiation suit, on the other hand, the cold is a bitch. That, among other colourful terms, are no doubt only being stifled. With trembling fingers, Morgan draws a practical pair of knives, blunted from overuse, but still functional, from his strife specibus. Now that’s just pitiful. Auntie promptly ignores his silent plea to go get his parka from downstairs and nocks an arrow in her bow.

“You know the rule. Act up, get a beating. No exceptions under any circumstances.”

Morgan, as he always does when she talks, just grimaces. 

…  


The air seems to freeze in Morgan’s lungs as a burst of arrows comes screaming forward, and he only barely manages to scramble out of the way of most, parrying one and taking one in the hip. It makes his whole body rattle as the blunt, steel-bolted head bounces off of the thinly-covered bone, and he twists in efforts not to land on it. He suppresses a scream when he slips right through the light snow and hits it on the sturdy surface below anyway. From the whistling in the air, Auntie doesn’t appear to be done either. Knowing that he’s screwed, Morgan just shuts his eyes and hopes he doesn’t bruise something important. Two- three- four- five. Fuck, that hurt me, and I’m not even involved; four more arrows smash into what few areas were exposed to the air, ricocheting off of his thin frame and pinging noisily into the snow and the roof-metal below. He’s done screaming, it seems, but his ears are ringing too loudly for him to really tell anyway. With that, she vanishes into the snow.


End file.
